FBI Headquarters
December 3, 1953
10:48 pm

"I don't get it."

Dales looked up from his file to find Dorothy staring into the
glassine envelope.

"How could someone just burn into gray dust without burning
the surrounding area? You said even the bones were dust."

"I don't know," he said. "I've never seen anything like it,
not even during the war."

"What could get that hot? An X-ray?"

"Maybe, but why would an X-ray machine be in a warehouse?"

She re-sealed the envelope and tucked it into a folder. "True.
But if we could figure out how, maybe why would follow."

"Okay, X-rays could make that kind of burn, I guess, but it's
still a hell of a lot of equipment to haul around. I would've
expected to see marks or gouges on the floor, and I didn't see
any of that where the bodies were found." He leaned back and
gazed at the ceiling, fingers laced behind his head, while his
toes pushed the front legs of his chair up and down.
"Flamethrowers are out, they'd damage everything in the
building. An acetylene torch, maybe."

"But wouldn't that mean someone--" She blanched and tried to
cover her reaction by fidgeting with the pile of papers in
front of her, arranging the pages until their edges lined up
precisely, a habit he recognized.

His chair thumped to the floor.  Shoot, he'd forgotten who he
was talking to again.  "No, that can't be right," he assured
her.  "Not three at once, and I didn't see any restraints
nearby."

"Drugs?" she asked.

He felt absurdly proud that she was still trying to test and
develop a working hypothesis about an event that was so
clearly upsetting her.  For all their ups and downs lately,
this was the part he loved about working with her, the
back-and-forth until they'd puzzled the problem out. "They
could have been drugged, I suppose." His voice trailed off as
he reconsidered his statement.  "On second thought, no, it's
an awful lot of trouble to go to. Too much. There has to be a
simpler explanation.  If it weren't for Cohn and those two men
in the warehouse, a gangland hit would have been my best
guess, except that the letter I found indicates the victims
were women."

She stopped toying with the papers. "That doesn't mean they
couldn't be caught up with a gang. It's not as though men have
a monopoly on criminal behavior, Arthur."

"True, but I just don’t think it fits.  A gangland hit would
have meant guns, and they would've torched the whole
warehouse, not just the bodies."

"No witnesses?"

"Not a one."

"Maybe you should talk to their families."

"I'm not too sure I can get to them without attracting
attention right now, and officially, I'm not supposed to have
anything to do with this case."

"I?"

"We," he corrected himself with a repentant smile.

Her point made, she returned the smile with a shake of her
head, and they resumed their study.

"Oh, thanks." Dorothy looked up from her file a half-hour
later, when Dales set her refilled coffee cup next to her
elbow. "You know..." She bit her lip and watched him sit back
down.  "I was just thinking about spontaneous human
combustion."

"Spontaneous combustion?"

"Yes. As I recall, the few recorded cases were a lot like what
you described -- bodies reduced to ash with no collateral
damage to walls or furniture. No evidence of accelerants or
arson or even faulty wiring. Nothing."

His fingers rubbed along his jaw, scratching against the five
o'clock shadow that was more of a ten o'clock shadow at this
point. Dales shook his head. "That describes what I saw well
enough, but what would Cohn be doing there if people were just
randomly bursting into flames? And three people
simultaneously?"

"Are you sure they were simultaneous?"

"Pretty sure. The body I saw was still smoking, and the heat
from the other two was still radiating from the floor. You're
right, though, we don't know that for a fact, just like we
don't know if there were any accelerants. Are you sure you can
sneak this into the lab?"

Her shoulders straightened. "Of course, Arthur."

"Spontaneous human combustion," he repeated.

Dorothy propped her head in one hand and with the other poked
at the files stacked on the table. "There might even be more
on this in the files. I can't think of any off the top of my
head, but I have a feeling I'm forgetting something." Her eyes
closed briefly and she yawned.

Dales crushed another cigarette into the almost-full ashtray.
"Well, I suppose that's better than the theory I was working
on."

"Which was..."

"That all the atomic tests out in the desert have mutated a
lizard into a fire-breathing dragon."

"Who just happens to be vacationing in DC?"

"I didn't say it was a good theory." He sat back with a groan,
pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers before
stretching his arms overhead. His hands fell back on the table
with a thud. "Hey, ever thought about packing it in and moving
to Los Angeles? We could be gumshoes for hire."

She looked up from the pile of files on the table, and gazed
slowly around the room at the metal file cabinets and battered
wooden tables with a slow 'what-and-leave-all-this?' look that
made him laugh. Grinning back, she answered, "Sure. When do we
leave?"

"Seriously?"

"Wouldn't you?" Her smile dimmed. "I guess not. Why L.A.?"

"I ran into Schroeder in the hall at lunch and he told me
about a guy we started with at the Bureau. This guy and his
wife packed up their kids and went out to L.A. He's making a
mint as a private investigator, and on the side he keeps tabs
on movie stars for some local scandal sheet." Dales reached
for the next file and scanned the pages quickly, using his
finger to guide his eyes. "Nice life. Orange trees in the
backyard, sun every day. Sounds better than being buried under
these dusty files, doesn't it?"

"It sure does. Aren't you interested?"

Unable to read her tone, he looked up, hoping for a visual cue
and finding none. "Are you kidding? I want to find out if half
the stuff in these files is even real. Don't you?"

"But what about the rest of it? You haven't exactly been happy
with your job."

He sat back slowly, trying to figure out what she was really
asking. He sent her a tentative smile. "You know, Dorothy, if
you were a man, this stuff would never come up. We'd be
talking about the chances the Yankees would win the Series
again."

"Arthur, if I were a man, you wouldn't spend nearly so much
time in the office. And I'd say the odds for the Yankees are
always good.  Now stop trying to change the subject."

"Okay, okay," he laughed, then turned serious.  "No, I haven't
always been happy here but that doesn't mean I'd leave."

"You've really never thought about it?"  She sounded surprised
and... disappointed?

"Sure, I thought about it after Skur," he said, "and I admit,
I wish now that I had stood up to them more. But don’t you
see? These files are my chance to go back and set the story
straight."  He fumbled for words, wishing he could explain it
to her better, a little surprised he wanted to. "I fought once
for our country, and if they'd needed me in Korea, I would
have done it again. It's my duty." He flexed his leg, feeling
the long, ugly scar that traced from his hip to the outside of
his knee tighten, and studied her serious face to see if she
understood. "This is kind of the same. There are crimes that
need to be solved, innocent people who need to be protected.
And these files, all this strange stuff... I think our work is
important. I thought you thought so, too."

He watched her worry a corner of a sheet of paper, unable to
imagine what had brought this on. Maybe the late nights were
finally getting to her.

"I do, but lately... I don't know." She pointed at the file in
front of her. "Don't you get sick of being called 'monster
boy'?"

"Yeah, but I'm used to it. Beats selling television sets." He
smiled at her, hoping to cheer her up. "But you must be
thankful we do this after hours. 'Monster girl' is hardly a
name to make Mom proud."  He found himself wondering why her
smile looked kind of sad. Did all this talk mean she was
thinking about leaving? "Would you really go? I thought you
liked it here."

"I do. I like the work. I like working with you." She glanced
at him, then dropped her eyes. "I just wonder sometimes what
I'm doing with my life. I can't be a clerk here forever. Not
that I'm just a clerk," she assured him when he started to
protest, "but after almost two years, I'm a little tired of
not being able to tell anyone what I do. We do," she corrected
herself. "You know Mr. Hoover would have a fit if he knew a
woman was reading his files, and he'd certainly never train
one to be an agent."

"Is that what you want?" he asked, somewhat incredulous. An
agent? He tried to imagine a woman out in the field. The image
put a smirk on his face. He opened his mouth to make a joke,
but she spoke first, never lifting her eyes from the file she
was fiddling with.

"Oh, I don't know. A little, I guess, though it doesn't really
seem like a job for a woman. But think about how we work now,
with you in the field, and me doing the research here. We work
well together, solve cases, but after hours, on the weekends.
By day I'm a just a clerk and at night I'm always here. I
don't know. Maybe I'm just jealous...." Her voice drifted off,
as though she were being reabsorbed into a conversation she'd
been having with herself.

"Jealous? Of what?"

His voice seemed to remind her he was sitting there, and she
sat up straight, with a bright, if strained, smile. "Oh you
know, the usual things for a woman my age. Another friend just
got married, and moved out to the suburbs. I've always thought
there was more to life, but I guess I still also thought that
maybe someday we'd--" She broke off and flashed him a bright,
brittle smile. "Lord, I'm sorry, listen to me this evening.
What's gotten into me? What's the next step? I just wish I
could remember what was in the files about spontaneous human
combustion."

Relieved at the change in topic, he settled back in his chair,
smoothing his hands down his trouser legs.

"Arthur!"

Her shout in the otherwise silent office startled him and he
almost lost the cigarette dangling from his lip.

"That's it -- California!" She fixed her gaze on the file
cabinets, as if trying to see through the metal facade to
catalogue the files within. Her hands flat were flat on the
table, fingers drumming and he guessed that if he looked under
the table, her foot would be wriggling, too.

California?

* * *

Santa Monica, CA
February 28, 1999
7:17 am

Not her
Not her
Not her

Words in his head set the pace for his feet.

Not now
Not now
Not now

Arcs of wet sand flew with each step.

Not this
Not this
Puddle
Crap

Thrown off stride, his dodge-and-weave recovery broke the
logjam of regret clogging his thoughts. Maybe now he could
start thinking his way out of this latest problem. But shit,
just as he and Scully were getting a good feel for the case --
no, more important, just as the easy rhythms of partnership
were being re-established -- along came a convertible-driving,
smooth-talking, all-around-fucking-annoying local cop who was
about to set a match to Mulder's carefully constructed plans
to get them back on track, and reduce those plans to ashes.
This case was starting to take on a definite theme.

The path that wound across the top of the bluff merged into a
straight concrete sidewalk. He obeyed the red gleam of the
traffic signal that guarded the intersection between earth and
sea, stopping to lift his shirt and wipe the sweat out of his
eyes. Despite the cool, overcast morning, he was sweating and
breathing hard. Being this pissed off didn't make for an easy
run. He squinted down the long pier before him, its colorful
attractions gleaming with moisture from the squall that had
blown through earlier that morning. It never rained in
Southern California, he'd been told, except in February, when
flash floods and mud slides made the earth pay a second time
for the fires of the previous Fall. Don't worry, the doorman
at the hotel had said, at least it isn't earthquake season --
they only happen in the winter when the weather turns hot.

Too bad, Mulder thought, picking up his pace and racing down
the nearly deserted pier, each step leaving a hollow wooden
thud behind him. He had a gratifying vision of Hernandez
trapped in his snazzy silver BMW as it disappeared into a
yawning crack in the earth. The illusion evaporated as he
caught sight of a flash of red hair through the bright blue
scaffolding of the roller coaster. His pace slowed.

"Hey, Scully."

She turned to face him, one arm extended over her head, and he
realized she'd been using the guard rail as support for
stretching exercises. He'd missed it. Timing lousy as usual,
he thought.

"Mulder, what took you so long? Who was on the phone?"

"Hernandez." He spit the name out with the force of an
epithet, and got the expected raised eyebrow response.

"How did he find us?"

"He's a detective, Scully." He wiped his face again. "He got
hold of my cell number. And he's trying to blackmail us off
this case."

"Blackmail? With what?"

He leaned forward and grasped the rail, wincing as he
stretched. He'd been stiff this morning from his adventure at
the warehouse, but the run had loosened his muscles and chased
most of the soreness from his body. He could stretch away the
rest.

Hernandez's voice echoed in his head. Heard all about you and
your partner, Agent Mulder. Got quite a reputation at the
Bureau, don't you? Sounds like there'd be a lot of explaining
to do if someone learned the two of you were out here doing
some unauthorized poking around. Wouldn't want your pretty
partner to get reprimanded for misrepresenting herself in an
investigation, would you, Agent Mulder?

Glancing at Scully over his outstretched arm, he took in her
puzzled frown, then watched as her brow smoothed in
understanding. She turned to take hold of the rail, mimicking
his pose.

"He figured out we're not officially assigned, right? And he's
going to tell on us."

The wry sarcasm in her voice warmed him. The Scully of five
years ago would have sided with the detective. This Scully was
on his side. He blinked as he remembered her throwing those
very words at him in the car yesterday. If it was the last
thing he did, he would keep her out of trouble this time. He
owed her that.

"He hasn't done anything yet, but he will, Scully. He wants us
out of this case." He released a long breath as he stretched
out his back, again making eye contact with her over his
shoulder. "I hate to say it, but I think we should do it. At
least for now."

She popped up out of her stretch. "Mulder, you can't be
serious. We've just started digging up good evidence here."

"We're digging a professional grave here, Scully, and you know
it. We have no official assignment, we've been poking around
crime scenes, bullshitting the locals--"

"Oh my God." She was staring at him in horror. "Mulder," she
said, putting a hand to his forehead, "what's wrong with you?"

He jerked back from her touch, irritated with the smile that
quirked at the corner of her lips. "This isn't funny, Scully.
You could get sent up before OPR and sanctioned. Again."

She raised her chin. "At least I know what to expect. And what
about you? You'd be in just as much trouble."

"I was saving that argument for later."

He stood to face her, close enough that she had to tilt her
head far back to meet his gaze. The sea breeze blew a few
strands of red across her eyes and he reached down to smooth
them back. The moist air had released the curl in her hair,
and the tendrils wrapped around his fingers.

"Scully," he rasped. "We could also lose the X-Files. Again."

"Okay," she said, after a long pause. "But I still want to get
the results of the tests I did at the coroner's, Mulder."

"You can call them this morning. Our flight isn't scheduled
till--"

"And I haven't met Mrs. Bahnsen yet," she continued with a
stubborn glint in her eye. "You said she invited us to dinner
tonight."

He untangled his fingers. "Christ, Scully." He turned to
stride back up the pier, not checking to see if she was
following him, knowing she couldn't keep up when he walked
this fast. Raising his voice, he said, over his shoulder, "You
didn't talk to this guy, I did. He's serious about protecting
this case. He doesn't want us involved."

"Why?"

He jumped as her voice came from in front of him. She'd taken
a shortcut under the roller coaster and stood, hands on hips,
blocking his path.

"Did you ask yourself why, Mulder? Why is he being so
protective?"

He crossed his arms and stared down at her, then began walking
again, at half-speed this time. "I just assumed he wanted to
get all the credit for solving it himself."

"Mulder, we've worked with territorial locals before. It's
never this bad this fast. Usually they wait to get to know you
first."

Her little jab, and its familiar dry tone, eased his temper
and allowed his brain to re-engage. They walked in silence
toward the end of the pier, where he picked up the
conversation again. "I guess he feels he knows enough, Scully.
I think he knows I was at the warehouse for one thing, and
that something happened there."

She gave him a startled look.

"I have no idea," he said, in reply to her silent question.
"When we were standing outside at the coroner's waiting for
you he made a crack about the soot on my suit. Then he said
the two of us were the only FBI agents he'd ever met who got
their hands dirty.

Her expression turned thoughtful. "You keep implying that
Hernandez is on the take, Mulder. Do you think he's involved
in this case, somehow? Maybe the shooter is working with
Hernandez and told him you were there."

"Maybe. But frankly, I think the shooter was an amateur,
Scully. And I don't think Hernandez would use someone like
that for surveillance or snooping off the clock."

"Did you tell him anything about what happened?"

"Just that I was taking the garment district trolley tour, and
it stopped by the warehouse."

She rolled her eyes. "What about the soot? And the cuts on
your hands?"

"Told him I slipped."

"Well, that should take care of all his questions." She was
shaking her head, but he could see the amused look on her face
all the same.

While they waited to cross the street at the end of the pier,
Scully grasped his right hand in both of hers and turned it
palm up. He looked down at her bent head as she peered at the
healing scrapes, then shivered a little as she brushed her
fingers gently over his palm. She let go and they continued up
the path along the bluff.

The sun broke through the clouds and shone down on the
Pacific. The water, steel gray a moment before, had turned a
deep blue, reflecting the sunlight back through rain-washed
air. A few dedicated runners and cyclists wove around them,
and the blanketed lumps under the palm trees began moving. The
local homeless population was preparing to greet the day and
the million-dollar view.

"How much do you think Hernandez makes a year?" Scully asked,
breaking their thoughtful silence.

"I don't know. Easy enough to find out."

"That was a nice car, wasn't it?"

"You go for BMW convertibles, Scully?"

"Not on my salary."

They paused at a streetlight.

"Mulder," she continued, "Everyone at the coroner's seemed
surprised that it took so long for someone from the FBI to
show up. Why do you think no one from the regional office was
sent to investigate? It seems like a natural. This was
probably a massive civil rights violation if nothing else."

He stared down at her. "I don't know." He settled his hand on
her back as they walked across the street to the hotel. "What
do you say we head over to the office on Wilshire, turn in the
van, and ask some questions?"

"I still want to meet Mrs. Bahnsen, Mulder. As you said, she
might tell me more than she told you."

He took in the stubborn set of her mouth, and said, "Yeah.
I'll reschedule the flight for tomorrow. When we get back to
D.C. I'll ask Skinner to file a 302 on this case. Everything
by the book. He'll love it. We'll be back here in no time."

She looked up at him as he brushed past the hotel doorman to
hold open the door for her. "Mulder, you're starting to scare
me. I'm warning you, if you keep wanting to play by the rules
like this, I'm going to start wondering what sort of head
injury you got in that scuffle at the warehouse."

* * *

The Georgian Hotel
1415 Ocean Ave.
Santa Monica CA
Room 301
8:35 am

Scully unhooked the hairdryer from the bathroom wall and gave
the damp underwear dangling from her hand a blast of hot air.
She mulled over the tests they'd ordered on the tissue samples
yesterday, but her earlier conversation with Mulder intruded
before she could start speculating about possible results.

Even for Mulder, he was acting strangely. Now he wanted to
drag them back to Washington, just when his latest case was
starting to get interesting. To get an actual 302 in hand
before leaping in?  Skinner'll think he's died and gone to
heaven, she thought, just before he has us tested for
mind-altering substances. And Mulder had never paid any
attention to the threats of local authorities before -- what
was it about Hernandez that rattled his cage? She didn't think
it was Hernandez's flirting. Mulder's protectiveness, his 'She
may not be mine but you can't have her either' brand of
territoriality was a familiar trait, but his reactions
yesterday had been more overt than any she could remember in
the past.

Though after the case at The Falls, she'd wondered if things
were changing a little on that front.  Where the hell had that
lovey-dovey behavior come from?  It was more than just a
chance to needle her -- he had enjoyed it too much. The hand
holding the hairdryer sagged to her side. Of course, there
might be a sort of pattern there. His adamant avowal that he
couldn't do this work without her, the sincere admission that
he loved her... Like touching a sore tooth with her tongue she
relived that bedside declaration, then lifted the hairdryer
and started waving it purposefully back and forth. He was
drugged, she thought firmly. It didn't mean anything.

Before today, Scully had decided to dismiss it all as one more
example of Mulder's rapidly fluctuating moods.  There was no
telling what he was thinking these days, not that they'd been
in sync since before El Rico.  Watching Mulder give up when
they'd lost the X-Files had been a shock.  Mulder never did
things halfway -- when he believed in aliens, when he didn't
believe in aliens, whatever he did, he did it with all his
heart.  But that apathy...  that had scared her.  Deeply.
That was not the Mulder she thought she knew.  What if he had
actually followed Diana to El Rico, instead of following
Scully to safety?  She shuddered, remembering the events
leading up to the conflagration.

Unable to pin down Mulder's frame of mind, she had done what
she could. She'd put her head down and searched for
information on C.G.B. Spender.  And Diana.  Scully winced and
turned away from the huge bathroom mirror while she dried the
cotton in her hand.  Presenting Mulder with pictures of his
father and the smoking man in front of a gym full of people
had been one thing, but using his hacker buddies to gang up on
him had been something else.  Maybe there was a little more
anger inside her than the idealized picture of herself as the
dutiful partner allowed.

Hell, she thought, lifting her head to scowl at the woman in
the mirror. There was a lot more anger. During that time, she
had been the driving force in the partnership and she had been
good at it. And now he wanted to shift back into their old
patterns, where he dribbled out information and she was just
supposed to follow along. After five, almost six years
together, it was about time he realized he couldn't make plans
for them and run their investigations by fiat.

What were they doing in LA?  In this fancy hotel?  And why did
they now need to rush back to DC?  For that matter, what case
had brought him out here while she was missing?  Why was
getting this information out of him like getting pulling
teeth?  She wavered for just a moment, acknowledging that he
might withhold information because she rarely asked him for it
directly, but, dammit, when she did.... When she did, he still
refused to give her a straight answer, more often than not. It
was patronizing, there was no other word for it.  Scully
thought about Mrs. Bahnsen, and wondered what it would be like
to have a female partner. Or what Mulder would be like with a
male partner. Would he persist with the information
striptease?

Struck by the thought, she stood still for a moment, underwear
still dangling from her hand, hairdryer droning. She was a
scientist, for God's sake, and Mulder could make all the
pretty speeches he wanted about how her science kept him
honest, but a scientist couldn't make any sort of valid
conclusions about anything unless she had complete
information. Scully flicked off the hairdryer with more force
than it probably required and tossed it on the counter. It was
about time, she thought, glaring at the cotton reminder of
Mulder's version of an itinerary, that he understood that.

An impatient knock at the hotel room door inspired a not very
graceful attempt to slide the underwear up and slip her feet
into her shoes at the same time.

"Just a minute, Mulder, I’m--" she stopped short as she opened
the door to an elegantly dressed woman, every curl and cornrow
in place, her dark brown eyes glowing with pleasure.

"Dana," she said, her soft, low voice carrying a tinge of a
Southern accent, "it’s so good to see you again." She held out
her hand.

"Danielle!" Scully grasped the woman’s hand and then gestured
her into the room. "How are you? What are you doing here?"

"Didn’t Fox tell you?" Danielle Nicholson walked into Scully’s
room, then frowned at the drawn curtains. "Honey, I went to a
lot of trouble to give you a room with a view. The least you
could do is enjoy it."

"You gave me-- Do you work at this hotel?"

"I’d better, since I own it." Danielle threw back the heavy
brocade curtains, revealing a pleasant terrace overlooking a
row of palm trees set against the clear blue sky.  "Sorry I
wasn’t here last night when you checked in." She turned to
smile at Scully, then sat at the Louis XIV desk, her movements
graceful, almost feline.

"I was just…" Scully gestured to the bathroom. "I need to
finish getting dressed."

Danielle made a ‘Please do’ gesture of her own, and picked up
the phone. "This is Mrs. Nicholson-Holland. What do we have
for fresh fruit this morning? Strawberries?" She cocked an
eyebrow at Scully, who nodded in mute approval. "Good. Please
set my table on the patio with breakfast for two, fresh fruit,
croissants, coffee. Thank you."

"Nicholson-Holland?" Scully reached into her suitcase for a
new package of pantyhose.

"I got married last year." Danielle’s joyful smile warmed
Scully from across the room.

"Congratulations." Scully turned to re-enter the bathroom. "It
looks like a lot has happened since you left the Bureau. Does
your husband own hotels?" She winced at the patronizing tone
in her voice. Any hope that Danielle hadn’t noticed was dashed
by the low chuckle from the other room.

"You mean did I marry for money? No, though I’m not so sure he
didn’t marry me for mine. You know how the FBI taught me how
to follow the money, honey? That’s just what I did, right out
of the Bureau and to my own pot of gold at the end of the
rainbow."

Scully came out of the bathroom and began to gather her notes.
"I’m impressed," she said. "This place is beautiful." She
followed Danielle out of the room to the elevator.

"You know," Danielle continued, "you're a smart woman, Dana,
and a doctor to boot. I'm surprised you stuck with the Bureau
all these years."

You have no idea how surprised I am to still be there, Scully
thought. But then, the only reason I'm still alive is because
I stuck with... the Bureau. She gave herself a mental shake.
"Since we’re here, I assume Mulder has kept in touch with you
over the last few years. I'm sorry I didn't do the same."

"We exchanged a few e-mails here and there. Fox is a good man
to have as a friend." They stepped into the elevator. "But
then, I guess you know that better than anyone, Dana. He was
terribly anxious when he made the arrangements for your room.
Kept insisting that you got the best. He said he had something
to make up for." Danielle’s face was filled with curiosity.

"When--" Scully struggled to organize her scattered thoughts.
"When did he make the arrangements?"

"A little over a week ago," Danielle said, as the elevator
doors opened. "He called me from D.C."

Scully did a quick calculation. Mulder had called just before
they’d left for the case in San Diego. When they were still
taking the most tentative steps to repair the damage wrought
by the meddling influence of Diana Fowley.

"Didn’t he tell you, honey?" Danielle continued, as they made
their way through the antique-filled lobby. "I guess it’s
because you’re on a case, but I'm surprised that he booked two
separate rooms -- 'cause unless I'm sadly mistaken, you two
have finally gotten to the point everyone in the Bureau
assumed you were headed years ago."

She grasped Scully’s hand and eyed the diamond sparkling
there. Though impressive, the stone was no match for the one
that flashed on Danielle’s own left hand. "It must have
happened recently, or I’m sure I would have heard about this
by now."

Scully resisted the impulse to wrench her hand away,
disengaging gently. "No, it’s--"

"It’s funny," Danielle interrupted. "I wasn’t sure in the
beginning that you’d get this far. Even if you are just his
type."

Sidetracked from setting the record straight, Scully blurted,
"I beg your pardon?"

"Fox has always loved a puzzle, honey." Danielle flashed her a
grin. "And for his sake, thank God you're not a predator, like
that Fowley witch. Heard she was back." Danielle gave Scully a
speculative look. "I'm not embarrassing you, am I?"

Before Scully could answer -- with a yes -- Danielle ushered
her toward the French doors leading to the patio. "Well, all's
well that ends well. By the time I left, it was easy to see
that the man would walk through fire for you."

Or ice, Scully thought. She stopped Danielle before she could
open the doors. "This," she said, holding up her hand and
wiggling the ring back and forth, "is a prop for a case.
You’re mistaken about Mulder and-- about that."

Danielle’s grin got wider. "Is that a fact? Well, shut my
mouth." She swept through the doors. "Fox!" she called, waving
to Mulder, who was leaning against the railing of the patio,
gazing out at the water. "Here we are."

Scully tried not to cringe. A woman calling her partner by his
first name almost always meant bad news. But this was
Danielle, ally and old friend, she reminded herself. She
watched Mulder take Danielle’s hands and lean down to kiss her
cheek in greeting. As soon as Scully reached them, he turned,
and they exchanged a silent salutation as she slipped into a
chair.  Mulder passed up the chair across from her and dropped
into the one beside her, as Danielle left them, trailing
promises of coffee.

"Have you called the coroner’s office?" he asked.

Scully reached into her bag to pull out her cell phone. "Not
yet." She paused as a waiter, clad in the black jacket and
traditional long white apron that matched the Parisian bistro
décor of the patio, presented them with a platter of flawless
strawberries, a basket of croissants, followed by a tall white
china pot of coffee.

"Enjoy your breakfast," the waiter murmured, and retreated.

"It's good to see Danielle again," Scully said, pouring coffee
for herself and Mulder.

Mulder nodded. "I thought she’d be useful." At her inquiring
glance, he continued, "She might be the Santa Monica version
of Martha Stewart now, Scully, but you know she’s a damned
good forensic accountant. And she was one of the few people at
the Bureau who didn't laugh at us when we discussed our cases
with her. Well, at least, not until after leaving the room. So
we get help on this case and as a bonus we get a nice place to
stay. What could be better?"

"Nothing like planning ahead," Scully agreed.

He paused in the act of taking a huge bite of croissant, then
nodded. "Um... yeah," he said, with his mouthful. "Besides,
Frohike is nuts about her. I figured between the two of them
they could find out who owns Sew-Quick. I hate to admit it,
but Hernandez was right. It’s an important piece of the
puzzle."

Scully nodded her assent while spooning a generous mound of
strawberries onto her plate. Since Mulder and Danielle had
answered her questions about their accommodations, however
obliquely, she decided to concentrate on the case. She could
wait to discuss the rest later. She was good at that.

They ate in companionable silence, enjoying the view. A
colorful mix of tourists and locals traipsed along the
sidewalk, taking advantage of the Southern California version
of a winter's day. As soon as she'd had her fill of the
berries, Scully picked up her phone and dialed the coroner’s
office.

"Dr. Browning, please," she asked the receptionist. She didn’t
want to start the day with another confrontation with Kumar.

"Dr. Scully." His dry voice came down the line filled with
surprise. "You’re making an early start."

"Good morning, Dr. Browning. We may have to leave soon, so I
wanted to check in with you and see if any of the test results
had come back."

Browning cleared his throat. "Well, as a matter of fact, I
have a couple interesting things to tell you. Got us buzzing
this morning, you might say."

"Please continue," she said, sending Mulder a look that caused
him to lean toward her.

"First of all, we got the chemical analyses back, finally.
Turns out, every test was negative."

"Negative?"

"Whatever made those people start burning, it wasn’t any
accelerant that the chemists could detect. Which seems to mean
that there was no accelerant involved at all. At least, not in
the usual sense of the word."

"No accelerant," she breathed, trying to make sense of his
statement. She watched Mulder sink back in his chair, a
thoughtful look on his face.

Browning continued. "See what’s had us going? They repeated
the tests several times, on every body. That’s what took them
so long. All negative."

"That’s…" She looked up at Mulder, but his expression had
turned inward. "That’s bizarre."

"You think that’s bizarre?" Browning’s voice dropped to a
whisper. "You haven’t heard anything yet."
***
End Chapter 6
* * *
Chapter 7